Pete unholstered his piece and checked the clip-so fast that he didn’t know why. Gail said, “Don’t you think our lives are strange?”

o o o

They took separate cars downtown. Gail sat at the bar; Pete grabbed a booth close by and nursed a highball.

The restaurant was crowded-Dale’s did a solid lunch biz. Pete got choice seating-he broke up a fag squeeze on the owner once.

Lots of women circulating: mid-Wilshire office stuff mostly. Gail stuck out: beaucoup more je ne sais quoi. Pete wolfed cocktail nuts-he forgot to eat breakfast.

Kinnard was late. Pete scanned the room, X-ray-eye-style.

There’s Jack Whalen by the pay phones-L.A.’s #1 bookie collector. There’s some LAPD brass two booths down. They’re fucking whispering: “Bondurant”… “Right, that Cressmeyer woman.”

There’s Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s ghost at the bar: this sad old girl with the shakes.

Pete slid down Memory Lane.

Late ‘49. He had some good sidelines going: card-game guard and abortion procurer. The scrape doctor was his kid brother, Frank.

Pete joined the U.S. Marines to bag a green card. Frank stayed with the family in Quebec and went to medical schooL

Pete got hip early. Frank got hip late.

Don’t speak French, speak English. Lose your accent and go to America.

Frank hit LA. with a hard-on for money. He passed his medical boards and hung out his shingle: abortions and morphine for sale.

Frank loved showgirls and cards. Frank loved hoodlums. Frank loved Mickey Cohen’s Thursday-night poker game.

Frank made friends with a stickup guy named Huey Cressmeyer. Huey’s mom ran a Niggertown scrape clinic. Huey got his girlfriend pregnant and asked Mom and Frank for help. Huey got stupid and heisted the Thursday-night game-Pete was off guard duty with the flu.

Mickey gave Pete the contract.